Born to Be Wild (II)
by ColtsAndQuiills
Summary: Castiel's time is running out, but will his struggle to come to term with Dean's death come between his fight for his own life? Takes place in the almost-immediate aftermath of the S9 finale.


Life wasn't meant to be fair. One lived it. Survived it for a while. But in the end, death was the singular, universal truth which played no favorites and gave no pardons. In the millennia since his creation, how many prayers had Castiel turned a deaf ear to? How many questions and pleas echoed in his every footstep, neglected and unheeded?

It wasn't his place to answer every cry. He had no right to question.

So how was it that the word _why _sunk its rusted accusation into his every thought, crucifying his convictions, bleeding out his promises?

While Metatron sulked in the corner of his cell, Castiel fantasized the sounds of agony he could pull from him, note by note, until he begged for forgiveness.

_Why?_

As he stared quietly from between the bars of his confinement, his dark eyes lit with cruel amusement, Castiel's fingers twitched with the restrained urge to burn them from his skull.

_Why didn't you stop this? Why didn't you save him?_

If the situation were reversed, would Dean have avenged him by now? Castiel didn't dwell on the thought. He knew the answer, but feared it.

_There was a time you had us enforce your wrath on the wicked. Tell me. Order me. Give me this, _he silently pleaded.

It had been quiet in the room for nearly an hour. He knew it was bound to happen, but his teeth were still set on edge when Metatron's voice broke the silence like the strike of an off-key chord.

"You know what's one of the best things about humans? When describing their blood, even the most unsophisticated of dullards can grow the tongue of a poet." The imprisoned angel smiled and shook his head, as if amazed by the possibilities. "You can go a more mundane route, sure — it's hot, it's sticky, it gushes and spills and tastes like a penny between your lips." He had begun counting off on his fingers. "But then the sight, the _feel_ of it, gets the creative juices flowing! It can 'run mad in the veins,' 'make civil hands unclean,' 'hold the life of the flesh' and with a single sprinkle sanctify—"

"Enough." Castiel spoke quietly, but his demand cut through the voice of God, severing the noise that had been tumbling from Metatron's now down-turned lips.

Metatron shrugged rounded shoulders and sighed, as aggrieved as any artist interrupted mid-lecture.

"'The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.' Why don't you give me a quill to pass the time, Castiel? I'll write out Dean's final moments with such vibrancy that you'll be able to feel like you were right there with him."

Grace shouldn't be wasted. Not at this stage, when every breath expelled seemed to take a little of his life with it.

"That's why you've been in here watching me all this time, isn't it? You're looking for the dirty details, trying to find that one piece of truth that will make some sense of his death. Well, to quote our lovable humans on one of their brighter insights: Shit happens. Righteous men die screaming and the world never hears a thing."

Metatron took great pleasure in watching Castiel during these little chats. The man could give London's Royal Guards a run for their money when it came to stoic composure, but his eyes? Castiel's eyes were an open book.

"Alright, fine, you dragged it out of me," he called with a good-humored smile. "He didn't scream so much as, well — what's the word for a cross between a groan and a gurgle?"

Castiel couldn't remember crossing the room to Metatron's cage, had only the faintest recollection of how his fingers found purchase in the loose skin of the other angel's throat. He was, however, fully aware of himself squeezing harder and harder, the beat of Metatron's rotted heart pulsing beneath the pads of his thumbs.

"That'a'boy!" Spittle dotted Metatron's chin as he choked out the word, his lips stretched wide in mocking glee. "Now _this_ is how you bring a story to a climax!"

It was impossible, but Castiel swore he could still smell Dean's blood on him. It was on the heat of Metatron's breath, in the grease of his pores, warm and slick under his hands. With sudden revulsion Castiel flung him away, his eyes wide with alarm as he looked to his open palms, half expecting to see them stained a damning red.

But they were dry as a bone and clean. Perfectly clean.

Suddenly, the anger within him unraveled. Without a word he turned soundlessly on his heel and began walking out of the room.

"I will not be kept here!" Metatron's voice reverberated off the walls, echoing around Castiel like a nightmarish prophecy. "You are weak! Leave me here and you will live to regret it!"

That voice chased him long after he was out of earshot of the cell's chambers.

_Forgive me. _

_Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me…_

Castiel no longer knew whom he prayed to.


End file.
